


How I Learned To Stop Worrying & Learned to Love The Russian

by tumtatumtum



Series: Cowboys & Russians [3]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blow Jobs, Boys Being Stupid Too, Boys Kissing, But also romantic as hell, Explicit Sexual Content, Hand Jobs, Hurt, Implied/Referenced Cheating, Jealousy, M/M, Man Pain, Misunderstandings, Napoleon is an idiot, Pining, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Protective! Illya, Public Blow Jobs, Rejection, Rescue, Resolved Sexual Tension, So much angst seriously, Spies & Secret Agents, Torture, Wooing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-26
Updated: 2015-09-29
Packaged: 2018-04-23 10:40:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4873642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tumtatumtum/pseuds/tumtatumtum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Honestly, I’m surprised we got through that in one piece.  You’re lucky I was able to improvise so well.”</p><p>The second he says it, Napoleon tenses.  Shit, he’s just broken what he’s sure is a cardinal rule of undercover work with your partner: Never mention the sexual acts you do to them in the middle of a gay club to maintain your cover (no matter how well it worked, or how incredibly arousing it was).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Everything is Illuminated

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CaptainBAMF](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaptainBAMF/gifts).



> Prompt:
> 
> CaptainBAMF: During a mission in Rome (what a cliché, I know) Illya is Napoleon's boyfriend. And Napoleon, being Napoleon, has sex with Illya, so at the end of the mission, Illya think they are really a couple. I want a jealous and protective Illya, and an oblivious Napoleon, who sees this new Illya's behavior as just one of the many oddities of the Russian, until during a mission, Illya's jealousy is so uncontrollable that almost blow up their mission and Napoleon speaks with Illya and tells him that that night in Rome, he has sex with him only to not compromise their covering and it was a mistake don't inform him about this. Angst, angst, sadness and rage for Illya (at your pleasure) and at the end sex and love. 
> 
> \------------------------
> 
> So yeah, kind of that....almost. Sort of.

 

 

 

“Another successful mission, Peril. One of the more interesting ones, I daresay.”

 

“Interesting is one word for it.  Illegal in Russia, is perversion.”

 

“ _Really_.” Napoleon Solo says, eyebrows quirked over the top of his newspaper. They’re sitting in the hotel lobby, bags packed and waiting for Gaby to finish checking them out. Apparently there was a bellboy with ‘amazing hands’ she wanted to say goodbye to.

 

It has been 20 minutes.

 

“A perversion.  That’s interesting, and here I thought you fit in so well with the homosexual community.”

 

“I- you yelled at me, said I was too tense entire time!”  Illya blusters, ears turning pink.  An angry Russian bear should not be so adorable, but Napoleon can’t help but think for the upteenth time that Illya is a rare mixture of ferocious and precious.

 

“And you were.  Hopeless at flirting with the Nancy boys, had no interest in posturing with the studs.  Your dance moves are also quite awful.”

 

“Gaby is terrible teacher.”  Illya huffs, yet he scoots imperceptibly closer to Napoleon on the couch.  Napoleon chuckles.  As if he could protect the Russian from Gaby.

 

“I have no doubt.  Honestly, I’m surprised we got through that in one piece. You’re lucky I was able to improvise so well.”

 

The second he says it, Napoleon tenses. Shit, he’s just broken what he’s sure is a cardinal rule of undercover work with your partner: Never mention the sexual acts you do to them in the middle of a gay club to maintain your cover (no matter how well it worked, or how incredibly arousing it was).

 

Dammit, he had been prepared to forget that. He had been prepared to forget about the way Illya had tensed when he had slithered down his seated body, rubbing himself against the tall blonde until he was on his knees at Illya’s feet. He had been prepared to forget the way the entire room faded into the background, how nothing had mattered but the feeling of Illya’s hands in his hair as he had swallowed around the Russian’s dick.

 

He had barely taken Illya out of his pants, just unzipped him with his teeth, maintaining eye contact the entire time. The Russian had been breathing steadily, but his ears were pink then too.  God, that cold, calculating look Illya had given him when Napoleon was posed wantonly at his feet had _done_ things to Napoleon.  It had made him want to wreck his partner’s calm demeanor, made him want to scream his name in ecstasy.

 

He had set to work accomplishing just that, slobbering over Illya’s large, impressive cock like the bottom boy he was supposed to be playing, his hand coming to play with himself in his trousers. He had moaned and whined around Illya’s dick, saliva coating his chin as he frantically deep-throated Illya, determined to get a reaction out of the Russian (all to maintain their cover, of course).  It wasn’t until the end, when Illya had grabbed him by the hair and forced his cock deeper into Napoleon’s throat, it wasn’t until Napoleon had looked up at Illya with tears falling down on his cheeks, that Napoleon had seen his Russian breathing hard, flushed, eyes boring into Napoleon with an intensity that made Napoleon’s eyes roll back into his head as he came in his trousers.  Illya had finished with a quiet groan, keeping a still-cumming Napoleon’s head in place as he unloaded down the American’s throat.

 

Then Illya had zipped himself back into his trousers, taken Napoleon’s handkerchief (the heartless bastard) and wiped Napoleon’s face tenderly.  He’d also leaned down and given Napoleon a quick, searing, gentle kiss that had been completely unnecessary to the mission and left Napoleon quite dazed for several minutes afterwards.  It’d almost been difficult to hack the host’s safe after that (they had been given permission to use his private bedroom in order to continue the show. Illya had savagely knocked him out the second they had locked the door).  It had definitely not been difficult to leave the club, papers concealed under his jacket and head held high as he marched through a room of men who had just seen him give head like a champ.  Illya’s arm, protectively slung over his shoulder, had absolutely nothing to do with that.

 

Napoleon had been prepared to forget all of that, and now he’s gone and stuck his foot in it.  Granted, Illya had been almost…cuddly the rest of the night, and when they arrived back at the hotel, Illya had crawled into bed to sleep next to him. But Napoleon knew that was just to maintain their cover. 

 

That was last night though.  Today, the host of the club had been arrested for arms trafficking, and their mission was finished.  They were supposed to forget all of that.

 

So Napoleon tenses, and casts a quick glance at his… at Illya. But instead of the rage he’s expecting to see, Napoleon is astonished to find that Illya is simply blushing harder. And…is that Illya’s hand, discretely covering his own?

 

“It was…impressive.  Fast-thinking on your part.  Could have done without audience, though.”  Illya says, and there’s a drop to his voice Napoleon has never heard him use before.  Oh God, does Illya think…

 

Does Illya think that meant something?

 

Napoleon jerks his hand away as quickly and smoothly as he can manage, under the guise of turning the page of his newspaper. He resolutely doesn’t look at the man next to him.  He’s seen enough looks of hurt from the rejections he’s had to deliver over the years. He shouldn’t be surprised Illya took it the wrong way, the Russian has barely any social skills to speak of. Someone throwing a hint of affection his way would of course entice him, no matter how ill advised such a pairing would be.

 

Napoleon reads his newspaper with the focus of a student cramming for an exam, and prays Illya doesn’t speak again until Gaby gets back.  Then they can forget this whole thing-

 

“You are angry with me, Cowboy?”

 

Napoleon sighs.  The lost puppy dog voice should not work well coming from a 6’5 Russian, but it is completely endearing.

 

“Of course not, Peril.  But the mission’s over now, and we aren’t in an ‘understanding’ atmosphere any longer.”

 

Illya nods, straightens up but again moves ever-so-slightly closer to Napoleon on the couch. 

 

“Of course.  Later.”

 

Napoleon mentally groans in frustration.

 

“NO, Peril.  Not later.”

 

Illya’s head snaps toward Napoleon, who still resolutely focuses on his newspaper.  It’s cowardly not to look Illya in the face when he’s saying this, but he likes to think he’s sparing Illya some dignity by doing so

 

(Of course, it’s not because he couldn’t bare the sight of heartbreak on Illya’s face.  That would be ridiculous).

 

After several tense minutes, Illya stands aggressively and sits angrily on the couch adjacent to where Napoleon is seated. Napoleon turns the page of his newspaper, and he is rather proud his hands don’t tremble. Good, now they can forget this whole thing ever happened.

 

10 of the most uncomfortable moments of Napoleon’s life pass, until Gaby re-emerges.  She’s glowing, her hair is mussed and her slip is slightly askew. Napoleon and Illya don’t say a word, but grab their bags and walk quickly to the car.  Gaby stares after them, wondering what in the world just happened.

 

She isn’t the only one.

 

\------------------------

 

Illya doesn’t say another word about it, for which Napoleon is eternally grateful.  They slip back into their old partnership with ease, and Napoleon is glad to report that in the six months preceding ‘the incident’ nothing has changed.

 

There’s nothing unusual about the savage way Illya tears into guards and THRASH agents now.  Nothing strange about the way he beats them with his fists, until his knuckles are swollen and he is breathing heavily, seemingly still frustrated.  Illya will sometimes glare at Napoleon afterwards, and Napoleon will have to swallow past the lump in his throat and tamp down the ridiculous urge to apologize. If anything, he’s helped to preserve their successful team and hold them all together.

 

Napoleon hasn’t done anything wrong.

 

There’s nothing unusual in the way Illya breaks the wrist of a man who grabs Napoleon’s ass in Cyprus.  Nothing strange about how he won’t look at the Napoleon the rest of the night, and when he does look at Napoleon the next day he looks ashamed. Napoleon wouldn’t look at Illya then, and he purposefully took a stranger to bed that night, just to remind Illya. 

 

Napoleon hasn’t done anything wrong.

 

There’s nothing unusual about how Illya takes to training harder, spending hours at the gym perfecting his martial arts. Nothing strange about how Gaby stitches up his split skin from street brawls, how Waverly scolds him for taking unnecessary risks with his life on missions.  Napoleon does try to talk to him about this once, after a completely boneheaded move when Illya threw himself in front of a rocket launcher.  His Russian is still a little rusty, but he’s pretty certain Illya not-so-politely told him to mind his own business.  So Napoleon rolls his eyes and ignores Gaby’s disapproving glares.

 

After all, Napoleon hasn’t done anything wrong.

 

\---------------------

 

It all comes to a head in Rome. 

 

They stopped an underground ring of cheese smugglers (surprisingly nasty fellows), and they’re celebrating together with a decadent and completely deserved dinner along the Tiber.  Gaby has brought along a sculptor of some sort to their meeting, and Napoleon had brought a rather fetching redheaded tour guide.

 

Illya has brought someone as well.

 

He’s a slip of a thing, a cobbler they met when Napoleon insisted on repairing one of his many pairs of expensive shoes. Illya and Gaby had agreed to accompany him, as Rome is a truly beautiful city to walk wander. The cobbler was slim, but he had fantastically pouty lips and an admittedly delicate face. He was shy and soft-spoken, glancing innocently at Illya every once in awhile.  The Russian sat stoically next to his date for the evening, but when he did speak he addressed the cobbler kindly.

 

Napoleon’s glass shatters in his hand when Illya feeds the tiny cobbler a piece of his gnocchi.

 

5 pairs of eyes turn to him and his bleeding hand. Napoleon curses and excuses himself, then hails a cab back to their hotel of the week.  He doesn’t care that the entire table sees him do it. He doesn’t look back either, so he completely misses the blank mask Illya wears as his cab rushes away.

 

\----------------------

 

“What was that, Cowboy?” an angry Russian demands, barreling into his hotel room not even half an hour later.  Napoleon rolls his eyes and pointedly slams the door behind him, wondering when he decided to let always let the Russian into his room.

 

Perhaps it was the first time Illya had taken a bullet for him.  Or the first time Napoleon had taken a bullet for Illya.  Perhaps it was when Illya had started hilariously poor attempts at trying to pickpocket Solo.  Perhaps it was when Napoleon had started stealing increasingly ridiculous hats for the Russian to wear, just to catch a glimpse of Illya’s smile. Perhaps it was when Illya had given started to give Napoleon chess lessons, during which time Napoleon would mercilessly tease the Russian until Illya would grab him by the tie and _demand_ he pay attention. Perhaps it was the first time Napoleon had seen a piece of art that reminded him of some facet of the Russian, his looks, his demeanor.

 

Whatever it was, it was annoying as hell right now.

 

Illya was standing in the middle of his room, feet hip-width apart and glaring at his partner.  Napoleon rolled his eyes again for good measure and finished his 3rd glass of scotch.

 

“I had just seen the prices for our meals. What they were asking for that gnocchi was absolutely ridiculous.”

 

“It was good gnocchi.”

 

Napoleon raises his eyebrows and seethes. “ _Really_.”

 

“Da, _really_. Yes, plate is small but it is simple.  It will satisfy me, and I can leave it behind in Rome, never see it again.  I thought you would approve.  It is kind of meal you seem to enjoy.”

 

Napoleon exhales harshly out of his nose, and grits out through his teeth,

 

“I did not think that type of meal interested you, _Peril_.”

 

Illya takes a step closer and into Napoleon’s personal space, using his height to tower over him.  Napoleon is absolutely not struck by the blueness of the Russian’s eyes, or the slight stubble that would leave a delicious burn across his skin.

 

“You do not have right to be interested in my meals, _Cowboy_.”

 

Napoleon reels back as if struck.  What is he doing, provoking Illya in the middle of his hotel room, loose from alcohol and reactive with anger?  This situation can only lead to one thing, and Napoleon is not sure he wants to explain a broken bed to the hotel staff. He takes a calming breath and steps back, turns and pointedly opens the door for Illya.

 

“You’re right, comrade.  It is none of my business.  Please, don’t let me keep you from what looks to be a promising evening.”

 

Illya is obviously shocked, but his mask is back in place in a matter of moments.  He storms past Napoleon, who deliberately closes the door with a quiet, passive-aggressive click.

 

There’s nothing passive-aggressive about the way he throws his empty glass at the wall.  Oh well, broken glasses are easier to explain than broken beds.

 

\---------------------

 

It’s another party that forces Napoleon to address the issue once again.  There’s no date on Illya’s arm, no threat of a mission over their heads.  Instead, they are attending the birthday party of one of Napoleon’s (few) oldest friends.  He’s an Italian man from Sicily, a gopher for expensive and rare works of art.  He’s the man who taught Napoleon slight of hand, and his wife of 40 years taught Napoleon how to cook a risotto.

 

They have all finished eating said outside on the patio, 3 bottles of wine in.  Illya and Gaby are talking to the gopher’s son and daughter, and while Napoleon is facing the conversation his eyes turn to the host.

 

His friend and wife are holding hands, staring at each other in gentle adoration.  It’s such a cliché image, one replicated in a dozen terrible Valentine’s Day cards. In real life, however, the authenticity and love of the moment leaves Napoleon breathless, and he finds himself tearing up at the sight.  It’s one of those rare moments where every stray thought, every second glance of the past comes together to create a clear picture for the future.

 

Napoleon focuses on Illya then, the Russian frowning as the son describes some frivolous financial deal, and he smiles.

 

\---------------------

 

Back in their hotel, they all say goodnight and go to their own separate rooms.  Minutes after their doors close, however, Napoleon emerges from his suite and wanders down the hall to Illya’s room.  He knocks sharply on the door and listens as Illya checks the eyehole, then places his gun back on the side table.  The door swings open, and Napoleon breezes inside the room. Illya closes the door and turns, clearly worried.

 

“Everything is fine, Cowboy?”

 

“Everything is fine, Peril.  Everything is…illuminated, I suppose.”

 

“I do not follow.  Did little Sicilian man put something in your wine?”

 

“NO, Peril.  He wouldn’t- just no.”

 

Illya frowns, then turns away and begins to toe off his shoes, pushing them with his bare feet to rest under the side table. Napoleon is breathless once again, because he never realized all the little ways Illya shows his trust. He can personally think of only 2 people in the world he would be comfortable around barefoot.

 

“Why are you here then, Solo?”

 

Napoleon gulps, and turns away.  He wanders over to the bed and idly runs his fingers across the blankets on top.  He hadn’t thought this part through at all.

 

“Solo…”

 

“I’m unused to apologizing, Kuryakin. You’ll have to give me a moment.”

 

Illya actually chuckles at this, leans against the doorframe and crosses his arms.

 

“Is sky falling?  Napoleon Solo is admitting he was wrong?  Which time, hmm?  Time in Turkey, where you miscalculated TNT needed and burned off our eyebrows?  Time in Tokyo, where you thought you could handle whole bottle of saki and I had to carry you home? Time in Shanghai, when you thought sailor’s tattoo meant-”

 

“I was actually referring to the time when I blew you at a gay club in New York, and then insisted we pretend like it neither mattered nor happened.”

 

Illya’s eyes are hot as coals, and Napoleon feels burned by his glare.

 

“Don’t.  Dare.”

 

Napoleon swallows and continues, because he’s never been particularly good at following orders.

 

“I suppose I am also referring to the time in Rome, when I had a hissy fit at a dinner and then refused to acknowledge that I was jealous of a cobbler.”

 

Sometimes Napoleon forgets how quietly the Red Peril can move, because before he can blink Illya is standing not an inch away from him, hands shaking as they come to rest gently on his throat. His eyes are aflame in fury now, and Napoleon wonders if he has finally pushed Illya too far, has asked too much of his Russian.  Illya gets so close to Napoleon’s face that his lips brush against Napoleon’s own when he speaks.

 

“You will not toy with me again, Solo. I will snap your neck like baby bird.” Napoleon swallows.

 

“Illya, _please-_ ”

 

“GET.  OUT.” The Russian roars, then hands disappear from Napoleon’s neck and overturn a bed, and Napoleon rushes to get out of what is soon to be a decimated hotel room.  He runs to the end of the hallway, fumbles with his keys and hastily opens his door, breathing hard by the time he closes it.

 

He sinks to the floor, numbed by the Illya’s response. Then he begins to quietly laugh, because of course he would impossibly find a more emotionally-challenged man than himself to go ahead and fall in love with.

 

Honestly, they’re both such idiots.

 

But Napoleon is fully on board now, ready to sail off into the sunset and have 40 years with his own true love.  He’s set on stealing back Illya Kuryakin’s heart now, and he won’t rest until he’s pulled off this, the greatest heist of his career.

 

Napoleon gets up off the floor and starts planning.


	2. Emotionally Constipated Men in Tights

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “No, Peril. I’m not giving you up. I’m finally ready to be with you, and I understand the reservations you must feel. I’ve been positively horrid to you, darling. But no more. I’m going to woo you as you deserve, starting with my new vow of chastity, until you finally accept that we are meant to be. Then, of course, I hope not to be very chaste at all.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt from L.: basically having Napoleon and Illya dress up like Superman and Batman, since Arnie Hammer was once up for the role of Batman. So enjoy!

Illya is not a man who gives his affection readily.

 

Perhaps his mother installed this behavior in him, when he saw the great frequency she gave away her “affections” to his father’s friends.  Perhaps it was his father who hardened his heart against a world that could rip away a person you love in one scarring night.           

 

Whoever it was, Napoleon Solo has proved the exception to whatever lesson he was supposed to have learned.

 

Napoleon Solo, who took the world on with a smirk and a glib one-liner, barely even able to take world destruction seriously. Napoleon Solo, who took women and men into his bed in great enthusiasm and number, yet somehow maintained a touch of class throughout his affairs.  Napoleon Solo, whose obsessions of clothes and art had landed him in the CIA’s crosshairs, yet refused to give up his beautiful suits, wearing them like armor.

 

He drove Illya crazy.  He flirted with their marks, ran up ridiculous hotel bills, he _winked_ at nuns and risked his life needlessly protecting his team members.

 

This, Illya did not understand.  Napoleon Solo shared none of the patriotism he had for his own country, and had said multiple times that he would not die for the United States.  Yet he had been shot diving in front of a bullet for Illya, and had his leg broken diving to tackle Gaby out of the way of a hostile car.

 

Yet the man with seemingly no attachments, besides brief obsessions with shiny things that caught his eye, had risked his life needlessly on more than one occasion to protect his partners.

 

Such virtue did not befit a blue-eyed thief. But Napoleon is a man of contradiction, thoughtless in his biting words yet tender in his actions, always insisting that Illya eat and sleep enough.  He’ll be the first to mock ‘Mother Russia’ and her faults, causing screaming matches between the two over Illya’s ‘blind faith’. Yet the same week Napoleon found identical matching band to his father’s watch after it had broken, wordlessly leaving it on Illya’s bureau.

 

Illya cannot justify his attachment to the American, as it is both unwanted and unexpected.  Instead he ignores it, refuses to admit that his eyes tend to wander over Napoleon’s relaxed form, how the eye contact between the two of them is charged with fight-or-fuck tension.  He ignores and ignores, until one day Napoleon gives him a smirk and slides down his body to the floor, gives him the best oral he’s ever had in the middle of a crowded gay club.

 

Illya does what he never does then, and he assumes. He assumes that something good has finally happened to him, that Napoleon had finally acted on the feelings Illya himself has felt stirring in his gut.

 

Then Napoleon literally and figuratively pulls away, leaving Illya feeling like a fool.

 

It’s harder to ignore after that.  But Illya does what he always does when life hands him another heartbreak- he moves on.  Granted, the sight of Napoleon’s conquests (and face, for awhile) leave him shaking with fury.  He is foolish with his safety on missions, he rips people apart like the monster the West claims he is. 

 

He also breaks the wrist of a greasy Greek who grabs Napoleon’s rear one night, and is mortified that the thought racing through his head at the moment was “ _That’s mine_ ”.

 

Because Napoleon isn’t his.  Napoleon made it perfectly clear that nothing of the sort was going on between the two of them, and Illya will respect and accept that.

 

Then Napoleon shatters his glass in Rome, and Illya feels hope once again.

 

This hope is, of course, completely crushed once again in Napoleon’s room that night.  Napoleon shuts down before his eyes, and as Illya walks back to his room he thinks he finally understands.  Napoleon is a man who does not give any affection readily. He keeps Gaby and Illya alive because their partnership is successful and gets the CIA off his back. With UNCLE, with Gaby and Illya, his leash grows longer and longer.

 

Of course he will not let Illya shorten it.

 

Illya goes back to his room that night, and instead of destroying glassware (as would be expected), he sits in a chair and stares at the wall until the sun rises.  When it does, he feels nothing.  He will never allow himself to feel anything again.

 

\-----------------------

 

He feels something mere weeks later, thanks to Napoleon Solo.  Blind rage.

 

“GET.  OUT.” He roars, and then proceeds to destroy every item he can get his hands on. The bed, the curtains, the tables and chairs.  He even rips up portions of the rug, then tears them into strips.  When the mist clears from his eyes, Napoleon is nowhere to be seen, but there are angry hotel staff knocking on his door.  Illya screams, a harsh sound ripped from his throat and he hears them scatter.

 

No one is foolish enough to open the door containing a wounded, feral bear. 

 

An hour later, sitting amidst the mess of his room with his bag packed and apology speech mentally prepared, Illya hears another knock at the door.  He sighs and rumbles to his feet, gently opening the door to an empty hallway.  He glances around, and when no one emerges he tucks his gun back into his pocket.  Then he looks down and sees a silver tray at his feet.

 

Frowning, he picks it up.  It is light, too light for any kind of bomb. He opens the lid to find

a tumbler of water, two aspirin and a note. He frowns and opens the letter, which reads:

 

Dearest,

 

Take two for your knuckles and call me in the morning.

 

\- Napoleon

 

Illya growls, marches himself to Napoleon’s room and shoves the tray back into his chest.  Napoleon lets out a small ‘oof’ but accepts the offering back, smirking infuriatingly at Illya all the while.

 

“Don’t worry, Illya.  I’m not giving up on us.”

 

“There is no _us_ , Cowboy.  You will not make advances again, are we understood?”

 

“No.”

 

“NO.”  Illya feels another red mist of rage approaching.

 

“No, Peril.  I’m not giving you up.  I’m finally ready to be with you, and I understand the reservations you must feel. I’ve been positively horrid to you, darling.  But no more. I’m going to woo you as you deserve, starting with my new vow of chastity, until you finally accept that we are meant to be.  Then, of course, I hope not to be very chaste at all.”

 

Illya gapes at Napoleon, who is smiling yet deadly serious.  It’s the exact voice he uses when negotiating terms with their enemies.  It brokers no argument, and charmingly yet firmly insists that things will be going his way from here on out.

 

Illya closes his mouth and tries to glare at Napoleon, but he is sure that he is unconvincing.

 

“You will tire of this.  You will lose interest, and I will have saved us both from very bad idea.”

 

“You know I’m serious, Illya.”

 

“You’re never serious, Solo.”  Illya bites back and turns on his heel, going to pick up his bag and wait in the lobby for Gaby.  At least her yelling at him for destroying yet another hotel room will be normal.

 

\-------------------------

 

Napoleon’s first gift comes during their next mission in France, where they are ordered to attend a costume ball for a Count who has made his money through mass mail fraud (honestly, Illya is stunned by the stupidity of the masses).  Though UNCLE provides Illya with a mask for his tuxedo, Illya enters his room to find a gold box with a maroon bow on his bed.

 

He really needs to increase the security in his room. This is starting to hurt his professional pride.

 

He opens the box uncaringly, and is confused when a hard fabric greets his fingertips.  He frowns and pulls out a long, black…scuba suit?

 

“It’s a bat, when completely made up. The finest replica of a costume of an American comic book figure that money can buy.  Or exceptional talent can steal.”

 

Illya whirls and faces his gift-giver, who is dressed in…tights?

 

“What are you wearing?”

 

Napoleon gives a wry grin from where he is, leaning against the doorway of Illya’s room. He sweeps his arm up and down, forcing Illya’s eye to trace the skintight fabric that clings to every bulging muscle on his American partner.  He swallows as the hallway light casts a glow around Napoleon, seeing the sparkle in his eyes and the outline of his cock through the thin yet structured fabric.

 

“Do you like it?”  Napoleon asks, straightening up and walking towards Illya in the room.  He gives a theatrical turn, and oh sweet Lord Napoleon’s ass in that costume is a sight to behold. Illya wants to bite it through the fabric, wants to make Napoleon bite down on the cape as he gives him pleasure. Illya shrugs, voice steady as he responds,

 

“Cape is ridiculous.  You will trip.”

 

Napoleon is hilariously affronted.

 

“I most certainly will not.  It’s regal.  Besides, your outfit has one too.”

 

“I will not be silly bat.  Bat does not scare Russian children.”

 

“The point of the costume is not to scare. You’re supposed to look mysterious and brooding.  Not that you need any help in that matter.”

 

Illya gives him that one.

 

“And who are you?  Easily-seen-and-shot-man?”

 

“Of course not, I’m…no, I don’t suppose you’ve read any American propaganda from World War II.  Don’t worry about it.”

 

Napoleon’s voice drops on that last sentence, and Illya realizes that he’s gotten close.  Too close.  Illya can almost see his nipples through the blue on his chest, and he wants to bury his fingers through Napoleon’s perfectly slicked hair and bite at his lips.

 

He wonders if the costume is as flimsy as it looks.

 

He wonders if he could convince Napoleon to leave the boots on.

 

“You didn’t tell me, Illya.  Do you like my outfit?”

 

Napoleon is right in front of him now, and his hand has come up to play with one of the buttons on Illya’s shirt.  His eyes flit up and meets Illya’s gaze, and Illya wonders how the look of coy innocence can be so convincing on Napoleon’s face.

 

He wonders how many people have been taken in by that exact expression.

 

Illya steps away and harshly grabs at the costume on his bed.  He absolutely does not retreat to the bathroom.  He makes a… tactical reverse attack.  He also ignores the sigh Napoleon gives, and the swish of the cape as it exits his bedroom.

 

He has other problems to deal with. Like figuring out how to actually fit into these black tights.  Are these even in his size?

 

XOXOXOXOX

 

“I am uncomfortable.”

 

“Don’t be such a baby.  My costume is much tighter, plus I have to wear heels.”

 

Gaby is dressed divinely as the Red Queen from ‘Alice in Wonderland’.  She is stunning in red, but Illya is worried that she will not be able to breath in that corset.

 

“Tights ride up.  Also, nowhere to hide gun.”

 

“You’re not meant to have a gun, Illya. You’re meant to be a shifty, mysterious character who deals with other shifty, mysterious characters of the night. Besides, your ass looks fantastic in those.”

 

Illya pinches Gaby’s side, and she yelps and whacks him with her scepter in retaliation.  It’s a sibling interaction rather than a romantic one.  Their would-be-romance quickly fizzled when Waverly came more permanently into the picture.  Illya is happy for them, as the Brit seems to have an unmistakable fondness for his Chop Shop girl.  Besides, they get sent on much more interesting cases since the two have been seeing each other.

 

“Now go and find the Count and start looking villainous.  Solo’s doing a fantastic job at it, and he’s wearing bright red and blue.”

 

Illya scoffs, then weaves his way throughout the party guests, determined to win over the Count as soon as possible so he might get out of this ridiculous costume.

 

His eyes do not wander to Napoleon and his tights for the rest of the evening.  It’s simply an attention-grabbing outfit.

 

\---------------------

 

Napoleon takes to baking.  Gaby is delighted, as the petite German girl has a love of all things sweet.  Napoleon invents truffles, builds soufflés and creates mouthwatering tarts. They all find their way to Illya’s doorstep in the wee hours of the morning, when he’s cleaning his weapons. They are always accompanied by a warm glass of milk.

 

Illya gives them all to Gaby, who squeals and snatches them into her room.

 

(Waverly has gained 5 pounds, which makes him grumpy. He quickly forgets about all of that when Gaby coos, slides next to him and pets his belly. There’s not much room for domesticity in their world.)

 

Finally, after a particularly impressive and unstable flan concoction, Illya comes to Napoleon’s door, front covered in sugary gel.

 

“This must stop.  I do not care for sweets.”

 

Napoleon groans and slaps his forehead.

 

“Of course you don’t!  Do they even have sugar in Russia?  Alright, back to the kitchen…”

 

Illya is only slightly affronted when the door slams closed in his face.

 

XOXOXOXOXO

 

Two nights later, Illya returns to his room after purchasing a much-needed replacement scope to find a beautifully set table for one.

 

Honestly, his security measures need beefing up.

 

This thought is swiftly forgotten as the smell of a perfectly cooked, piping hot borscht.  The soup is still steaming on the table, and Illya’s stomach grumbles at the sight.  He double checks that no one is around to witness, and then sits down slowly to eat. He folds his napkin carefully on his lap, picks up the spoon like it will bite him, and hesitantly takes a small spoonful into his mouth.

 

The moan he lets out is completely pornographic. He’s had interrogators fail to get a sound out of him, and Napoleon Solo has done it in one spoonful. The borscht is excellent, the beet and cabbage playing together perfectly with all the other spices. Illya recognizes Red Herring as the staple meat, and sighs in nostalgia.  He has not had a dish that reminds him of home in a long time.

 

After he has practically licked the bowl clean, he slumps, defeated and full.  It seems Solo has won this round.

 

XOXOXOXOXOX

 

Solo is unbearably cheerful the next day, and it makes Illya’s scowl deepen.  He thinks he’s scowling.  He had a great night’s sleep last night, belly full of his homeland.

 

“Well rested and ready for the day, eh Peril? I take it the borscht was a smashing success.”

 

“Have no idea.  Threw it down the drain.”

 

“For a spy, you are a horrible liar. To those who know you well, at least.”

 

Illya growls, turns around and pins Napoleon to the wall.  Napoleon’s grin is Cheshire-like, the proverbial cat that got the cream.  He actually wiggles a bit and sighs, eyes fluttering closed like he wants to savor what it’s like for Illya to hold him down. Illya blinks and holds onto his anger, hissing,

 

“You know nothing, Cowboy.  You do not know me.”

 

Napoleon has the gall to chuckle at that, and the eyes that meet Illya’s own are full of mischief.

 

“I’ve spent quite a bit of time doing exactly that, Illya.  All I seem to do nowadays is look at you.  And do you know what I see?”

 

Napoleon leans forward as much as Illya allows him, and whispers so Illya is forced to lean a bit closer.

 

“You look like you’re starving to be loved.”

 

Illya’s breath hitches in his throat. He violently shoves Napoleon against the wall and hastily walks away, determined to disappear into the next crowd he can find.  Because somehow Napoleon has plucked at the one thing he is most sensitive about. Not his past, with his family tragedy.  Not his present, with his constant compromise between his country and current employment. It is his future, the one he dared to hope for, the one Napoleon has apparently always seen and chosen to ignore.

 

The desperate man Solo didn’t find good enough to keep.

 

Illya does not know for how many hours he walked, but by the time he has come up with a plan the sky is dark.  He knows Napoleon will not accept what he wants, the monotony that comes with monogamy. He will eventually fall for Solo’s charms, it’s only a matter of time.  And while Solo might want him now, if Illya gives in and bears his soul to this man as he fervidly wants to…he’ll ultimately be crushed. 

 

It would only be another matter of time before Solo’s eye would be caught by another mysterious, brooding stranger. Or a diamond pendant. Or some other fleeting obsession.

 

“ _No,_ ” Illya thinks, as he enters a bar in the seedier part of town, ducking underneath the low doorframe, “ _I will do this on his terms, not mine._ ”

 

XOXOXOXOXO

 

Napoleon hums to himself in his hotel room, swathed in a fine silk robe and nursing an even finer glass of scotch. He’s reading some of Napoleon Bonaparte’s love letters to his wife Josephine, hoping to have something else sweet to say to Illya once the giant calms down a bit. His own words always seem to fail him, or scare his intended off.  Perhaps Illya will respond better to the words of another.

 

A familiar knock on his door startles him out of his musings.  He is surprised by the hour and the intruder into his fortress of solitude- Illya never comes by his room this late anymore.  Perhaps he was wrong, Napoleon wonders excitedly as he opens the door, perhaps Illya has finally come around and seen Napoleon’s true intentions.

 

“A bit late for you, isn’t it Periooomph!”

 

6’5 feet of drunk Russian falls through his doorway, and Napoleon is barely able to catch the completely skunked blonde. Illya lurches back up and grins at Napoleon, then wildly swings his arm behind him so that the door slams closed with a loud bang.

 

Napoleon opens his mouth to say something, then closes it as the overwhelming scent of vodka hits his nose.  He tries again in a few moments,

 

“Your bedroom is down the hall, Peril. But you can sleep here tonight, I’ll take the sofa.”

 

“Don’t want me anymore, Solo?”  The Russian slurs, and Napoleon raises his eyebrows.

 

“I like my partners consenting, darling. I’m not sure you’re capable of that right now, so you’re going to sleep this off and I’ll give you an _extremely_ enjoyable wake-up call tomorrow afternoon.”

 

Illya snorts, then whips out his gun. Before Solo can move, he’s discharged the magazine, then proceeds to completely take apart the rest of the gun, pin by pin.  It takes him all of 15 seconds, and while he sways on his feet his hands don’t shake. Napoleon stares, more than a little impressed and turned on.  He cocks his head and smirks at Peril, opening his arms and says,

 

“Well then, if you’re absolutely sure.”

 

Illya grins, and latches onto Napoleon. He wraps Napoleon completely up, pressing them chest to toe as he grabs, roughly groping at Napoleon through his thin robe.  Napoleon groans and arches into the touch, rubbing himself frantically against the tall, corded muscle of the Russian.  Illya is hard everywhere.  Hard muscles, hard planes of his body, hard cock.  His lips are soft though, but his kiss is biting. Napoleon eagerly opens up to taste his future lover, and commits the taste to memory.  There’s firewood, vodka, sunflower seeds and…

 

Smoke?

 

Napoleon jerks away, pushing a persistent Illya off of him with great difficulty.  The Russian looks dazed, smiles dopily at Napoleon as the American wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

 

“Whoever you kissed earlier tonight was a smoker.” Napoleon says, and to anyone else it would sound breezy.  Illya hears the jealousy in his voice, however, and laughs.

 

“Da, tasted terrible.  The second man had better breath, but was prude. Would not come back with me. So I come here. Is what you offer, no?”

 

Napoleon doesn’t flinch.  He doesn’t allow himself to react, because any reaction he could possibly have would involve movement.  And any movement would reveal that a part of him just shattered, a part he had never offered to anyone else. Protected for years, and broken in a single moment.

 

Napoleon feels numb.

 

Then Illya moves towards him, a playful hand lifting for his robe’s belt.  Napoleon’s hand moves before he realizes it, and the resounding crack is deafening. Napoleon’s palm stings from the force of the slap, and in the back of his mind he is relieved that he can at least still feel pain.

 

When Illya turns his head to look back at him, his eyes have lost all of their mirth, and most of their drunken glaze. He looks angry, but Napoleon doesn’t care.

 

“No, Peril.  That was never what I offered.  Not to you.”

 

Illya just stands there, cheek red and expression partially confused, partially angry.  Finally, he speaks again,

 

“But, you have nothing else to offer me.”

 

Napoleon means to laugh.  Truly, he does.  But what comes from his throat is a choked sob, and it sounds exactly as devastated as he feels.  Because that’s all the value anyone’s ever placed in him, isn’t it? A warm body to steal for them, a warm body to fuck them, a warm body that is easily replaceable. God, he had so hoped Illya saw all that he was, all that he could be for him.

 

He had been willing to try.

 

The phone rings in the other room, and the shrill tone sharply cuts the silence in the air but not the tension. Napoleon turns and rushes to answer it, thankful for some sort of distraction.  He fumbles with the receiver and scrubs his hand across his face, attempting to collect himself in some manner.

 

“Solo.”

 

“Ah, capital, I was afraid you might have been in bed. I’m afraid I need to take you off your team for a bit, as we’ve got nasty business in-”

 

“I’ll be down in 10 minutes, Waverly.”

 

Solo hangs up abruptly, yanks his suitcase out and begins throwing clothing inside.  He’ll be mortified tomorrow to wear a wrinkled suit, but at the moment he doesn’t give a damn.  He hurriedly slips on his Oxfords and rushes past Illya, who is standing in the middle of the room. He hasn’t moved the entire time.

 

Napoleon leaves without a word, and waits for 6 minutes in the lobby, in his silk robe, for the company black car to pick him up.

 

When it does, he feels nothing.  He isn’t sure he ever will again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AHHHH THE SUFFERING!!! IT ENDS SOON DARLINGS, I PROMISE!!!
> 
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	3. Coming Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The mission goes horribly wrong from the start.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Final chapter!! Will our boys finally get their happy ending?!

The mission goes horribly wrong from the start.

 

Napoleon is in complete pieces right from the beginning.  He goes through the motions, all sharp edges blunted in the presence of such brutal heartache. His handlers throw him in anyway, and his cover is blown within minutes.  The car dealer with Nazi ties figures him out within an instant, and before he can blink he’s being thrown into the back of a black van. He awaits back-up, and wonders vaguely who will pay the highest price for his head these days.

 

A fringe section of the KGB gets him. Apparently the Russians have a few questions for him Illya has not been able to answer.

 

He wakes up tied to another chair, surrounded by 4 men with various degrees of intimidating facial hair.  His shitty week has unfathomably taken an even worse turn.

 

They say nothing at first, which tells Napoleon these men are true professionals.  Why waste time with idle chitchat when you can get right down to it? They hook him up to a meat hook, wrists tied around the hook’s swoop.  Then they take turns punching him, until his flesh feels like it’s dead and hanging off his bones.

 

He can barely breath when they finally stop. What breath he does manage to get into his lungs is pained, and he thinks his left lung has been punctured by a broken rib(s).  At least he’ll die soon.  There’s not much more pain he can take.

 

“Now, American.  While you still can, you talk.”

 

The one with the greasy mustache speaks, and Napoleon doesn’t bother to lift his head.

 

“I’m sorry, I don’t speak commie.”

 

It earns him another punch, and his world is all pain again for a few life-shortening moments.  He wheezes and coughs up blood, and they continue on.

 

He wishes they had punched his face. If his jaw was broken, he couldn’t talk.

 

“Our comrade work with you, but does not know whereabouts of your CIA handler.  You will tell us.”

 

Napoleon groans in frustration, but it comes out as more of a gurgle.  What with the blood and all.  He hates Sanders, and now he’s about to die because that stupid prick went and pissed off the crazier part of the KGB. 

 

“Did he fuck your sister too?  Because honestly, the man seems to have a way with loose women.”

 

The second punch is to his left side, and Napoleon almost chokes on his own blood this time.  They have to take him down from the hooks, force him to kneel and bend his face forward so he can cough up the rest of the phlegm and blood. Then the door opens, and the men all whirl around.

 

“What are you doing here?”

 

Napoleon again doesn’t look up, but the voice he hears makes his heart sink in his chest.  Please God, don’t let Illya see him like this.

 

“I work with man for three years now. I have been given pleasure of killing him.”

 

The men laugh, and Illya steps through their ranks to where Napoleon has collapsed completely to the floor.  He sees Illya’s practical shoes first, and cries out in pain as one of Illya’s large hands grabs his hair and hoists him into the air, so he is once again kneeling.  A knife is pressed to his throat.  Illya’s favorite one, the one he sharpens every night.  Napoleon meets his eyes, sees the icy cold depths above him. 

 

“Come, comrades.  See how to properly slit throat.”

 

The men laugh and shuffle closer, and Napoleon’s gaze doesn’t waver.  Instead, he bares his throat further and gives Illya a watery smile, a few tears falling from his cheeks.  At least his final view will be beautiful.

 

“It was always you, Illya.”  He whispers.

 

Illya’s eyes widen, and his arms move. Faster than Napoleon can comprehend, his hair is released as the Red Peril ruthlessly sets about dismembering his four fellow countrymen, once Napoleon’s captors.

 

As Napoleon’s head hits the ground, he realizes this must be what it feels like to be loved.

 

\------------------------

 

Napoleon wakes slowly to a world of pain. The air around him is stale, his sides are killing him, and his face feels like someone put sandpaper to it. He’s also completely blinded by the light when he opens his eyes, and makes a muffled sound of protest around the tube down his throat.

 

Oh, that’s just unpleasant.

 

“Nurse!  He has moved.  He is awake, and uncomfortable. Remove tube now.”

 

Napoleon smiles around the tube, then immediately starts gagging.  So unpleasant.

 

“See?!  You told me not to bother until he moved, and he is moving!  He is choking, get it out!”

 

One ejected Russian and two efficient nurses later, Napoleon’s throat is free and he’s breathing on his own. Doctors come and assess him, tell him what he could already guess.

 

He’s lucky to be alive.  Another few minutes, and his lungs would have been completely filled with liquid.  He’s bandaged up, but he’ll need four months recovery and lots of rest before he goes back into the field.  No strenuous activity for now.

 

Illya barges in as soon as they allow, pulls his chair back up to Napoleon’s bedside and grabs his hand.  Napoleon offers him a weak smile, and reminds him as he drifts back off into unconsciousness,

 

“Don’t worry, Peril.  I’m not going anywhere.”

 

\----------------------

 

“Were you ever actually planning on killing me?” Napoleon asks during his third week of recovery in the hospital. He’s healing remarkably well, even Gaby says so.  She and Waverly stop by regularly, Waverly to apologize and vow to never split the team up again. Gaby looks more and more like she might forgive him each time.

 

The constant, however, has been the Russian by his side.  Illya only leaves after Napoleon falls asleep, goes to his UNCLE safe-house and showers. He’s brought books and read to Napoleon, all love poems.  He’s played Napoleon in chess a dozen times by now, winning each time.

 

He’s never explained himself though. He seems focused only on moving forward in their relationship, but Napoleon has some questions that need clearing up.  Illya almost spills his coffee, but regains his composure in time.  He glares at Napoleon over the rim.

 

“No, Cowboy.  Was never the plan.  By the time I realize what you have said, you were captured.  They tell me and I go through my own Russian channels. Waverly says that Oleg demands my own throat cut.”

 

Napoleon feels a stab of regret, and he reaches blindly for Illya, whose hand finds his own within moments.

 

“I’m sorry, Illya.  I would never have wanted you to betray your country.”

 

Illya shakes his head, dismissing his lifelong service to the Soviet Union with a seemingly careless attitude.

 

“We both know they would never have accepted me back. Too much time with Americans, I would be tainted.”

 

Napoleon always knew that.  He just never realized Illya did as well.

 

“Still, Illya.  Your country lost an incredible asset.  I am sorry.”

 

Illya gives him a tiny smile, and squeezes Napoleon’s hand.

 

“You must make it up to me then, Da?”

 

Napoleon grins at that, and squeezes back.

 

“Da.  For the rest of my life.”

 

\---------------------

 

“Oh fuck, _fuck_ Illya right there- ah!”

 

Napoleon groans and thrusts his hips back, bucking until Illya shushes him, pets his hand down Napoleon’s flank as if he’s calming a startled horse.  Napoleon continues to shift, because while he does want to be obedient, he’s growing old here.

 

He’s waited months for this.  Months of recovery, months of painful physical therapy. Months of watching Illya jerk himself off, months or ordering Illya to jerk him off and telling him exactly how to do it.

 

(His Russian is remarkably good at following orders in the bedroom.  His expression will look almost pained until Napoleon will whisper “ _Good, so good for me, darling_ ” and then Illya will smile sweetly and cum, choking on Napoleon’s name every time.)

 

The point is it’s been months.  Months of being able to look but not really touch, not the way he wants.  Hence Napoleon’s impatience, which he feels is completely justified.

 

“You keep moving, so this goes slower.” Illya pants into his mouth, nipping at Napoleon’s lips as he continues to thrust his fingers in and out, scissoring and hooking intermittently.  He found Napoleon’s sweet spot within 15 seconds of probing, and he’s been sure to lavish it with attention.  He stares at Napoleon in awe as he presses, eyes wide as he soaks up the sight of his lover spread out and wanton, writhing below him.

 

Illya has never felt more powerful. It’s an intoxicating, heavy feeling.  Then Napoleon will gasp again, his eyes darkening as he zeroes in on Illya’s face, and Illya knows any control he feels is an illusion- he is completely at the whim of his American lover.

 

Napoleon groans anew and wraps his muscled arms around Illya’s, shoulders, spreads his legs impossibly wider and whispers “ _Three_ ” into Illya’s ear, like the devil he is. Illya nods blindly, and the next thrust of his fingers in sees his ring finger joining the others.

 

“Oooohh, yes darling.  That’s it, your gorgeous fingers…”

 

Illya whimpers, burying his face in the crook of Napoleon’s neck.  Even after all the whispered praise, the lingering kisses, and songs crooned in his ear, Illya is still undone by Napoleon’s praise.  Napoleon never fails to take advantage of this, but the one thing honeyed words could not sway Illya to do was fuck him.  Not until today, when Illya had practically carried him out of the doctor’s office after he was deemed fit for active duty.

 

And now they’re here.  Not in one of the numerous lavish hotel rooms that they inhabit for most of the year, but rather in their UNCLE safe house.   It was a gift from Waverly, whose generosity was rewarded by Gaby finally agreeing to see him again.

 

(Gaby didn’t say a word when they claimed the master bedroom as their own.  Just politely suggested that Illya let Napoleon decorate.)

 

“God Illya, I’m ready, I’m growing old here I’m so ready for you to fuck me, dearest.”

 

Illya growls into Napoleon’s neck, biting down on one of the many marks he’s taken to sucking onto Napoleon’s skin. For a man with no strong ties to any country, Napoleon is covered with markings that tell everyone where he belongs.  To whom he belongs.

 

Illya continues to thrust his fingers in and out, whining against Napoleon’s skin.  Napoleon smirks, wraps his legs around Illya’s hips and gasps when their cocks brush together.  He gives a full body roll and revels in the shudder that comes from his Russian. Then he unceremoniously flips them over, grinning triumphantly at Illya’s dazed expression from the bed.

 

His breath hitches as he sees his Russian, sweating and flushed.  Illya is still beneath him, breathing hard and gazing up at Napoleon like he’s the sky. Napoleon nuzzles Illya’s nose, presses sweet kisses to his eyelids, his forehead, his cheeks, all while rocking back against the cock standing erect between his cheeks.

 

It’s gorgeous.  Long and thin, just like Illya, with dirty blonde hair at the base. Illya’s balls are also surprisingly tender, and one day Napoleon is going to make him cum just by playing with them.

 

When Illya begins to thrust his hips up minutely, Napoleon takes pity on him and reaches back, feels the heat of Illya’s cock in his hand as he leans back to line himself up.  As the tip of Illya begins to push in, Napoleon grasps Illya’s chin with his other hand and forces his head forward, two pairs of blue eyes clashing.

 

“Look at me, my love.”

 

Napoleon swears that Illya stops breathing as he slowly sinks down (an inch down then up, then another inch down and up). By the time he’s fully seated Illya’s hands come up to grasp Napoleon’s hips, and his legs are trembling with the effort not to blindly thrust up into Napoleon’s tight heat. One day Napoleon is going to force him to stay completely still as he rides him to the brink or orgasm, time and time again, until the proud Russian finally begs.

 

But it is not this day.

 

Napoleon leans forward and let’s Illya’s cock come out of him a bit, but it’s worth it for the sloppy, desperate kiss he gives his partner. Illya’s fingers tighten on his hips, and he kisses back like Napoleon is a dream he’s about to wake up from.

 

Napoleon knows the exact feeling.

 

So he leans back and sets about proving that they are both, in fact, very much awake and alive.

 

He doesn’t break the kiss, but shifts up and then thrusts his hips back down.  The motion looks like a panther stretching its back, lets him rub his cock against Illya’s abs in a most delicious manner.  Both he and Illya let out sounds of pleasure, and Napoleon begins to work his hips back and forth with fervor.  He and Illya’s mouths are still touching, but they’re mostly just breathing, too blown away by the surges of emotion and sheer bliss.

 

Napoleon watches the open pleasure that fits over Illya’s face, and he moans as he realizes that he’ll have this wonderful, beautiful man with him forever.

 

Right now, however, he’s not going to last much longer.

 

Luckily, Illya is similarly overwhelmed. He’s beginning to thrust up and into Napoleon, swiveling his hips and nailing Napoleon’s prostate head on. One of Illya’s hands comes up to grasp at Napoleon’s hair, and he pushes their foreheads together with his grip, stutters,

 

“Close, Cowboy.  Hurry, please.”

 

Napoleon laughs breathlessly, bounces up and down on Illya’s cock and rides them both to their climaxes, shattering in their intensity. Napoleon’s back arches almost painfully when he cums, a strangled scream coming from his throat. Illya follows with two hard, sharp thrusts upward, cumming into Napoleon’s clenching hole with a joyful smile and a sigh of Napoleon’s name. 

 

They lay there intertwined, cum oozing slowly out of Napoleon’s spent hole and around Illya’s softening cock. They’re both panting heavily, sweat clinging to their skin and sealing them further together.

 

Eventually, Illya gently shifts Napoleon to the side, allowing the American to lay his head on the Russian’s chest and snuggle in close.  Napoleon smiles and presses soft kisses to Illya’s collarbone, feeling happy and sated. From the way Illya sighs and hums his approval, he knows the feeling is mutual.

 

And why shouldn’t it be?  After all, they’re finally home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for all the love this fic's gotten! Feel free to leave me more Illya/Napoleon prompts:
> 
> http://versus21.tumblr.com/

**Author's Note:**

> Second chapter soon! As always, come talk to me on tumblr!
> 
> http://versus21.tumblr.com


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